The gold moon turns to white; The white moon fades to cloud; It looks so like the gold moon's shroud, It makes me think about the dead, And hear the words I have heard read, By graves for burial rite. I wonder now how many moons In just such white have died; I wonder how the stars divide Among themselves their share of light; And if there were great years of night Before the earth saw noons. I wonder why each

Good tidings every day, God's messengers ride fast. We do not hear one half they say, There is such noise on the highway, Where we must wait while they ride past. Their banners blaze and shine With Jesus Christ's dear name, And story, how by God's design He saves us, in His love divine, And lifts us from our sin and shame. Their music fills the air, Their songs sing all of Heaven; Their ringing trumpet peals